F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Short Stories

The World’s Greatest Writer

by

In One Page. By Infrogmation at English Wikipedia on en his/her summary,
In One Page. By Infrogmation (English Wikipedia on en his/her summary, “typewriter keyboard, from nl wikipedia”; http://www.pdimages.com/X0022.html-ssi, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
Enclosed is the really fake true story of the world’s greatest writer. You can’t get this story anywhere else—only from my scoop, and I’m willing to talk.

Wow, such hubris had I back in 2002 (I was actually trying to be funny, since this is the only intentionally funny story I’ve ever written)! I’d sent this to The New Yorker October 13, 2009, and the above was my opening line. I committed some other heinous atrocities in that cover letter I’ll not reveal, but, yeah, I’m sure I pissed of the editor and had my name put into some file of “Never accept anything from this person ever again. EVER.” Sigh. But I was trying to be “in form” for the submitted story. Probably explains why every other thing I’ve sent them fell flat. BTW, there are some definite publishing jibes in here that might also fall flat on those not in-the-know….

This story was originally published in Black Sheep #62, December-January 2005.

The World’s Greatest Writer

© F. P. Dorchak, 2002

 

“Well, have you ever actually met him?” the doe-eyed initiate asked.

“Uh, nooo, not actually,” the immaculately dressed author-in-white responded, “I’ve been told he’s rather a bit of a hermit, you might say.” The author-in-white nervously fingered his cane and white hat meticulously posed before him.

The young writer nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Okay. So, then, have you ever actually read any of his work?”

At this, the writer-in-white’s ego further deflated, upon which he grew visibly agitated. “Um, no, my dear, I haven’t yet had the opportunity. No one has—”

“Then how do you know he’s such a great writer?” pressed the young one, who held the older writer’s gaze firmly, her manuscript cradled loosely in her arms between them. The young one had not meant to pin the learned author to the wall, but was merely genuinely curious. “How can you say so much about him, when you haven’t ever read his work—or met him?” She furrowed her brow, patiently awaiting an esoteric, scholarly, response.

“I know it’s hard to believe, my dear, but it’s his reputation, you see. Did you know he doesn’t even use a computer? He uses a mechanical typewriter! The gentleman is simply… extraordinary. Exceptional. Have you ever personally met God? The Pope? No…you know of each through faith, through reputation. But that’s what this banquet is all about, my dear young one! He’s coming out, as it were! Don’t let your youth and impetuousness get the best of you! You are yet young—learn! Tonight, here, it is said that he will debut the opening pages to his Great American Novel! I mean, can you fathom this opportunity before you? The miraculous, metaphysical encounter we are all about to be granted? We are going to be the first to experience his words, his energy, his soul. His raw, unfiltered emotional fervor before they are all unleashed upon our common, illiterate, public—we…we are the privileged few. Savor this moment, my dear writer, for you clearly do not comprehend the enormity of greatness upon which you are about to witness. Mark my words: this…will never happen again. In any life time. My God, how I wish I were in your shoes, a lifetime ago, to start over my profession at a much higher place, indeed!”

And with that, the writer-in-white spun away on his heels from the neophyte in search of others with which to intelligently converse. The neophyte watched as the author-in-white discretely dabbed his eyes with a dainty white handkerchief, then quickly spirited it away, back into an inside lapel compartment.

Hugging her manuscript tightly into her chest, the young writer slouched off into a corner to ponder the learned man’s words, when another group of writers, editors, or agents made their way toward her no-longer-empty corner, though not inviting her into their conversation. After all, they did not know her and were too far along in their awe and adoration of I.M.N. Authier III, the unmatched, unparalleled, unequaled literary (and spiritual) prodigy to humanity who had emerged out of nowhere.

Well, Canada, to be precise.

Our young, impressionable writer overheard the entire story, as one of the group informed their newcomer on the miraculousness of what the author-in-white had just tried to impart upon her. This time, she heard…the rest…of the story:

There was not one person who could claim to have actually read a piece of Mssr. Authier’s work. Not even his agent. Mssr. Authier’s agent’s claim to fame was the divine opportunity of which she had been a part: the reception of his skillfully executed proposal package. So masterfully woven was it—and in less than one page—on the whitest and most defect-free twenty-pound paper with the cleanest, crispest TNR type that she immediately fell upon herself in a fit of hot, emotional blithering…which had so cleansed her being that her feline allergies had been summarily obliterated. Immediately, she’d called her estranged mother and apologized for everything cruel she’d ever done, or would ever do, including anything in all her future (or past) lives. Once she read her mother the letter, her mother likewise returned the compliment. The agent then immediately withdrew a sizeable portion of her investments and donated it to Readers Without Books and her top-two choices of battered parents’ shelters. Instead of staying home and reading through the rest of her slush pile, she flew out into the night to the nearest homeless shelter and spent the rest of the night assisting those who begged money for a living.

This, off the power of the esteemed Mssr. Authier III’s epiphianic proposal package (and on one page, no less!). Well, after she called Random House and read his poignant, moving letter to the company’s CEO, the CEO himself called Mssr. Authier, and offered him on the spot. He’d been very convincing. The CEO informed the esteemed Mssr. Authier III in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take his offer, he was going to resign and take a bullet to the brain that very night. That it was his and his work alone that would make or break Random House—nay the entire publishing industry, sir!—and that it was his moral and spiritual imperative to not let Publishing fall.

Reluctantly, Mssr. Authier accepted.

Random House immediately put into motion a hundred-million-copy print run, foreign, movie, and audio book rights, and an emotionally blistering promotional campaign that rivaled D-Day’s 1944 invasion. Random House also sold a television series and coloring books for adults and children (grades one through four), to be included in the curriculum of all U.S. public schools. Europe was next.

Spielberg was awoken twenty-five minutes later and sealed an undisclosed multi-million dollar deal via The UPS Store’s faxes, securing Mssr. Authier’s signature. The exact fax machine used by Mssr. Authier had since been removed from service and bronzed.

Amazon.com took 110.3 million advance orders.

Mssr. Authier’s agent offered him her hand in marriage.

Dr. Phil asked Mssr. Authier for his advice on a secret, deeply personal matter that had been troubling him for years.

Phil Donahue disclosed a comeback to do one, really final this time, show with Mssr. Authier as the only guest.

Metallica penned a ballad in his honor.

So, as this new group of writers continued to chatter on about Mssr. Authier’s proposed deification, the neophyte found herself so emotionally overwhelmed, especially when certain lines from his proposal letter were refrained (now immortalized by the world and passed around like a veritable Internet Trojan and blowing up YouTube) that she found her soul uncontrollably expanding toward supernova detonation. And when she heard the title of Mssr. Authier’s proposed novel, she positively lost it and ran balling for the lady’s room, where she pulled out her meager manuscript and stared at it in weary, disillusioned judgment.

WWJD?

WWXD?

She grabbed her manuscript in both hands, her heart heavy with all the wasted time and effort she’d poured into this piece of no-name tripe, and viciously and maliciously began rending it into tiny, jagged, tear-stained shreds, amid spastic grunts and shrieks of soulless despair, tossed it into a pile in the middle of the lady’s-room floor, setting it afire.

The young neophyte then, amid the billowing smoke, floating ashes, and now-activated sprinklers of her snuffed manuscript, pulled out a pair of scissors and the razor she always carried, because she was, by trade, a hairstylist, and immediately set about shaving her head and carving Mssr. Authier’s initials into her scalp.

 

As the clock ticked closer to Mssr. Authier’s scheduled appearance, the entire Radio City Music Hall buzzed over his other ideas for other books. How could he possibly have created a series out of this concept, they asked? Surely his first book would drain everything a reader had to offer? Could a person emotionally survive the first book? Could the editor? Surely Random House would bring in a team of editors, in relay fashion, to take over when the previous ones simply could go no further. Counselors would also have to be brought in, so the buzz went, with fat severance packages to take care of these forever-spent editors who would be of no use to anyone else or themselves, ever again. Yes, Random House would have to take care of them, indeed, it would be their moral obligation to do so, in bringing this genius to the world, and many in this room were willing to so give up their lives to be on that editorial task force, emotional sanity be damned! Every lawyer in the country began to point out that Random House would also be liable to the public for their emotional sanity, as well, once the book hit the shelves, so a non-profit foundation had also been set up.

And what of the cover artist? The jacket copy writer? Marketing and promotion? Accounting? Was Spielberg even up to task? There was talk from his camp that after just storyboarding the film this would be his last project. Anything after this one would be parochially anti-climactic. Useless. With this film, he would have said everything he could ever possibly have to say in this lifetime or any other.

(Unfortunately, Mssr. Spielberg had to decline invitation to the banquet, because he had been so passionately ravaged from production efforts that he had to abruptly seek psychological counseling. Mssr. Authier sent his well wishes.)

Random House, taking the lead, had strategically pre-positioned counselors throughout the convention center, counselors who had, however reluctantly, because they understood the need to do so, shield themselves from Mssr. Authier’s words with the most advanced ear-protection technology available. Nothing was left to chance!

Then it happened, and for just a moment the entirety of Radio City Music Hall fell quiet, as if each person collectively inhaled for the first time since their arrival. The words

“He’s here!”

shot from a watcher posted at the entrance and immediately three women collapsed and five men spilled martinis about themselves.

In no time, Mssr. I.M.N. Authier III’s motorcade pulled up before the convention center and security flooded the gathering. When Mssr. Authier III finally graced the gathering, (amid floods of marriage proposals from both genders) it was as if God Him/Her/Itself had descended from Heaven. Mssr. Authier, dressed in a comfortable tweed sports jacket, with tastefully adorned elbow patches (no self-respecting author would be caught dead in anything else) and sporting his rimless glasses and a calm, soothing smile arrived and was the epitome of graciousness—but was also quite embarrassed. Not only had he no idea his name had already been submitted for both saint- and knighthood, but he also had no idea at the scale of what he’d spun into motion with the delivery of his (one-page!) proposal.

Yet he remained ever gracious as he shook hands and took a genuine interest in all whom he greeted—asking how their children and relatives were doing, did they have jobs, and if not, please, do give him a call, and he’d see what he could do about it, and would they promise him that they would get enough sleep before going back to work on the morrow?

Then one, without warning, wildfire-swift whisper erupted throughout the banquet:

Where was the manuscript?!

Had he come without his words?!

Were they all to be so-callously jilted?

Teased so hotly, only to be summarily slapped without so much as a kiss or a hug? Good God, what had happened? Was it…Writer’s Block?

The crowd again held its collective breath.

He somberly approached the podium, his smile evaporated.

Removing a handkerchief, Mssr. Authier paused, wiped tears from his eyes, then grasped both sides of the podium, stained hanky still clutched in one of his trembling hands. He voice wavered and cracked as he addressed the audience in his wonderfully accented, melodic French-Canadian dialect.

“Ladies and gentlemen…friends. I tried…to keep from…how you say?—breaking down—before all of you, here, tonight, but find…at the last, possible moment…that, mon Dieu!, I am unable to keep from doing so!”

Here he paused, again wiping tears from his hot, swollen face.

“My friends! Let me share with you what had happened to me last night as I flew into Kennedy aéroport….”

And with that, Mssr. Authier III launched into the most heartrending speech anyone in that room (or their progeny) had ever, or would ever, participate in. For two-and-one-half hours Mssr. Authier held the room in rapt captivation. Random House, foreseeing this, had trucked in boxes of Kleenex (TM)-brand tissues—unfortunately for Mssr. Authier’s attendees (and further adding to their emotional turmoil) his likeness was on the sides of each box, promoting his yet-to-be-written novel. People gave up their writing careers following his speech, devoting their lives to the Peace Corps or Green Peace. Half of the counselors working the banquet took early retirement (including those wearing the most-advanced-technology ear protection devices; though they couldn’t hear a single utterance, they didn’t have to…each felt and experienced the emotion that had taken complete hold of that audience that magical evening), and entered therapy themselves. Those with outstanding traffic warrants turned themselves in the next day and insisted upon a minimum of one year of community service for evading the law in paying those fines. So overcome with exhaustion was Mssr. Authier himself at the conclusion of addressing his audience that he had to be assisted from the stage and escorted directly to his awaiting motorcade, where a saline IV drip awaited. Mssr. Authier was submitted for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes for his oration.

Mssr. Authier later reluctantly agreed to a special interview with Barbara Walters, whom he also brought to tears (at one point they all, including the 20/20 staff and operators behind the camera, were all blubbering unabashedly together on national TV, and it was the first time an entire five minutes of weeping was nationally televised without commercial interruption), where the following was made public:

Mssr. Authier had made the decision, since sending out his (one-page!) query and making his convention center debut that he would not write the proposed book in question. As an aside, Barbara (and she apologized in advance for having to bring this to his attention this way) informed Mssr. Authier that his agent, having been scorned by his lack of amorous advances gave up agenting and had left for India to devote her life to the poor and destitute, vowing a life of celibacy. Following another crying spat, Mssr. Authier used this as an example and was further quoted as saying that after having witnessed the effects of his words upon the world he had no choice.

The only moral and ethical thing to do was to not pen the novel.

The world was simply not ready for it. He was not ready for it.

The world (he cited tearfully) could not handle his words and he could not handle the world, after having seen the impact his letter and presence has had.

Barbara begged him to reconsider. Literally begged. But, no matter how heartrending, how needed, how emotionally brutal and true his proposed book he maintained he could not in all good conscience do it. It wouldn’t be fair to humanity.

Mssr. Authier also decided to return all his advance monies that he’d kept untouched (in a separate numbered account) despite Random House’s vehement objections. He deserved every penny, Random House countered (with several of their A-list authors also having offered up their own advances and royalties so Random House could make the author advance). Mssr. Authier said thank you, and donated all that had been given him to world hunger organizations.

And, finally, Mssr. Authier vowed to never, ever, propose to pen another book…ever again.

At this point Barbara lost all composure and decorum and pleaded with him to reconsider, as did her producers and a camera people.

But he held firm and declined, laying a hand to her shoulder.

Following the interview, Mssr. Authier quickly disappeared into seclusion, never to be heard from again.

Spielberg’s film adaptation of his proposed novel that had never been written created box-office records that, to this day, have never been broken. Spielberg, as promised (and recovering nicely in extended therapy), quietly retired…donating all proceeds from the film to the International Red Cross.

Related Posts

The World's Greatest Writer

by

In One Page. By Infrogmation at English Wikipedia on en his/her summary,
In One Page. By Infrogmation (English Wikipedia on en his/her summary, “typewriter keyboard, from nl wikipedia”; http://www.pdimages.com/X0022.html-ssi, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
Enclosed is the really fake true story of the world’s greatest writer. You can’t get this story anywhere else—only from my scoop, and I’m willing to talk.

Wow, such hubris had I back in 2002 (I was actually trying to be funny, since this is the only intentionally funny story I’ve ever written)! I’d sent this to The New Yorker October 13, 2009, and the above was my opening line. I committed some other heinous atrocities in that cover letter I’ll not reveal, but, yeah, I’m sure I pissed of the editor and had my name put into some file of “Never accept anything from this person ever again. EVER.” Sigh. But I was trying to be “in form” for the submitted story. Probably explains why every other thing I’ve sent them fell flat. BTW, there are some definite publishing jibes in here that might also fall flat on those not in-the-know….

This story was originally published in Black Sheep #62, December-January 2005.

The World’s Greatest Writer

© F. P. Dorchak, 2002

 

“Well, have you ever actually met him?” the doe-eyed initiate asked.

“Uh, nooo, not actually,” the immaculately dressed author-in-white responded, “I’ve been told he’s rather a bit of a hermit, you might say.” The author-in-white nervously fingered his cane and white hat meticulously posed before him.

The young writer nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Okay. So, then, have you ever actually read any of his work?”

At this, the writer-in-white’s ego further deflated, upon which he grew visibly agitated. “Um, no, my dear, I haven’t yet had the opportunity. No one has—”

“Then how do you know he’s such a great writer?” pressed the young one, who held the older writer’s gaze firmly, her manuscript cradled loosely in her arms between them. The young one had not meant to pin the learned author to the wall, but was merely genuinely curious. “How can you say so much about him, when you haven’t ever read his work—or met him?” She furrowed her brow, patiently awaiting an esoteric, scholarly, response.

“I know it’s hard to believe, my dear, but it’s his reputation, you see. Did you know he doesn’t even use a computer? He uses a mechanical typewriter! The gentleman is simply… extraordinary. Exceptional. Have you ever personally met God? The Pope? No…you know of each through faith, through reputation. But that’s what this banquet is all about, my dear young one! He’s coming out, as it were! Don’t let your youth and impetuousness get the best of you! You are yet young—learn! Tonight, here, it is said that he will debut the opening pages to his Great American Novel! I mean, can you fathom this opportunity before you? The miraculous, metaphysical encounter we are all about to be granted? We are going to be the first to experience his words, his energy, his soul. His raw, unfiltered emotional fervor before they are all unleashed upon our common, illiterate, public—we…we are the privileged few. Savor this moment, my dear writer, for you clearly do not comprehend the enormity of greatness upon which you are about to witness. Mark my words: this…will never happen again. In any life time. My God, how I wish I were in your shoes, a lifetime ago, to start over my profession at a much higher place, indeed!”

And with that, the writer-in-white spun away on his heels from the neophyte in search of others with which to intelligently converse. The neophyte watched as the author-in-white discretely dabbed his eyes with a dainty white handkerchief, then quickly spirited it away, back into an inside lapel compartment.

Hugging her manuscript tightly into her chest, the young writer slouched off into a corner to ponder the learned man’s words, when another group of writers, editors, or agents made their way toward her no-longer-empty corner, though not inviting her into their conversation. After all, they did not know her and were too far along in their awe and adoration of I.M.N. Authier III, the unmatched, unparalleled, unequaled literary (and spiritual) prodigy to humanity who had emerged out of nowhere.

Well, Canada, to be precise.

Our young, impressionable writer overheard the entire story, as one of the group informed their newcomer on the miraculousness of what the author-in-white had just tried to impart upon her. This time, she heard…the rest…of the story:

There was not one person who could claim to have actually read a piece of Mssr. Authier’s work. Not even his agent. Mssr. Authier’s agent’s claim to fame was the divine opportunity of which she had been a part: the reception of his skillfully executed proposal package. So masterfully woven was it—and in less than one page—on the whitest and most defect-free twenty-pound paper with the cleanest, crispest TNR type that she immediately fell upon herself in a fit of hot, emotional blithering…which had so cleansed her being that her feline allergies had been summarily obliterated. Immediately, she’d called her estranged mother and apologized for everything cruel she’d ever done, or would ever do, including anything in all her future (or past) lives. Once she read her mother the letter, her mother likewise returned the compliment. The agent then immediately withdrew a sizeable portion of her investments and donated it to Readers Without Books and her top-two choices of battered parents’ shelters. Instead of staying home and reading through the rest of her slush pile, she flew out into the night to the nearest homeless shelter and spent the rest of the night assisting those who begged money for a living.

This, off the power of the esteemed Mssr. Authier III’s epiphianic proposal package (and on one page, no less!). Well, after she called Random House and read his poignant, moving letter to the company’s CEO, the CEO himself called Mssr. Authier, and offered him on the spot. He’d been very convincing. The CEO informed the esteemed Mssr. Authier III in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take his offer, he was going to resign and take a bullet to the brain that very night. That it was his and his work alone that would make or break Random House—nay the entire publishing industry, sir!—and that it was his moral and spiritual imperative to not let Publishing fall.

Reluctantly, Mssr. Authier accepted.

Random House immediately put into motion a hundred-million-copy print run, foreign, movie, and audio book rights, and an emotionally blistering promotional campaign that rivaled D-Day’s 1944 invasion. Random House also sold a television series and coloring books for adults and children (grades one through four), to be included in the curriculum of all U.S. public schools. Europe was next.

Spielberg was awoken twenty-five minutes later and sealed an undisclosed multi-million dollar deal via The UPS Store’s faxes, securing Mssr. Authier’s signature. The exact fax machine used by Mssr. Authier had since been removed from service and bronzed.

Amazon.com took 110.3 million advance orders.

Mssr. Authier’s agent offered him her hand in marriage.

Dr. Phil asked Mssr. Authier for his advice on a secret, deeply personal matter that had been troubling him for years.

Phil Donahue disclosed a comeback to do one, really final this time, show with Mssr. Authier as the only guest.

Metallica penned a ballad in his honor.

So, as this new group of writers continued to chatter on about Mssr. Authier’s proposed deification, the neophyte found herself so emotionally overwhelmed, especially when certain lines from his proposal letter were refrained (now immortalized by the world and passed around like a veritable Internet Trojan and blowing up YouTube) that she found her soul uncontrollably expanding toward supernova detonation. And when she heard the title of Mssr. Authier’s proposed novel, she positively lost it and ran balling for the lady’s room, where she pulled out her meager manuscript and stared at it in weary, disillusioned judgment.

WWJD?

WWXD?

She grabbed her manuscript in both hands, her heart heavy with all the wasted time and effort she’d poured into this piece of no-name tripe, and viciously and maliciously began rending it into tiny, jagged, tear-stained shreds, amid spastic grunts and shrieks of soulless despair, tossed it into a pile in the middle of the lady’s-room floor, setting it afire.

The young neophyte then, amid the billowing smoke, floating ashes, and now-activated sprinklers of her snuffed manuscript, pulled out a pair of scissors and the razor she always carried, because she was, by trade, a hairstylist, and immediately set about shaving her head and carving Mssr. Authier’s initials into her scalp.

 

As the clock ticked closer to Mssr. Authier’s scheduled appearance, the entire Radio City Music Hall buzzed over his other ideas for other books. How could he possibly have created a series out of this concept, they asked? Surely his first book would drain everything a reader had to offer? Could a person emotionally survive the first book? Could the editor? Surely Random House would bring in a team of editors, in relay fashion, to take over when the previous ones simply could go no further. Counselors would also have to be brought in, so the buzz went, with fat severance packages to take care of these forever-spent editors who would be of no use to anyone else or themselves, ever again. Yes, Random House would have to take care of them, indeed, it would be their moral obligation to do so, in bringing this genius to the world, and many in this room were willing to so give up their lives to be on that editorial task force, emotional sanity be damned! Every lawyer in the country began to point out that Random House would also be liable to the public for their emotional sanity, as well, once the book hit the shelves, so a non-profit foundation had also been set up.

And what of the cover artist? The jacket copy writer? Marketing and promotion? Accounting? Was Spielberg even up to task? There was talk from his camp that after just storyboarding the film this would be his last project. Anything after this one would be parochially anti-climactic. Useless. With this film, he would have said everything he could ever possibly have to say in this lifetime or any other.

(Unfortunately, Mssr. Spielberg had to decline invitation to the banquet, because he had been so passionately ravaged from production efforts that he had to abruptly seek psychological counseling. Mssr. Authier sent his well wishes.)

Random House, taking the lead, had strategically pre-positioned counselors throughout the convention center, counselors who had, however reluctantly, because they understood the need to do so, shield themselves from Mssr. Authier’s words with the most advanced ear-protection technology available. Nothing was left to chance!

Then it happened, and for just a moment the entirety of Radio City Music Hall fell quiet, as if each person collectively inhaled for the first time since their arrival. The words

“He’s here!”

shot from a watcher posted at the entrance and immediately three women collapsed and five men spilled martinis about themselves.

In no time, Mssr. I.M.N. Authier III’s motorcade pulled up before the convention center and security flooded the gathering. When Mssr. Authier III finally graced the gathering, (amid floods of marriage proposals from both genders) it was as if God Him/Her/Itself had descended from Heaven. Mssr. Authier, dressed in a comfortable tweed sports jacket, with tastefully adorned elbow patches (no self-respecting author would be caught dead in anything else) and sporting his rimless glasses and a calm, soothing smile arrived and was the epitome of graciousness—but was also quite embarrassed. Not only had he no idea his name had already been submitted for both saint- and knighthood, but he also had no idea at the scale of what he’d spun into motion with the delivery of his (one-page!) proposal.

Yet he remained ever gracious as he shook hands and took a genuine interest in all whom he greeted—asking how their children and relatives were doing, did they have jobs, and if not, please, do give him a call, and he’d see what he could do about it, and would they promise him that they would get enough sleep before going back to work on the morrow?

Then one, without warning, wildfire-swift whisper erupted throughout the banquet:

Where was the manuscript?!

Had he come without his words?!

Were they all to be so-callously jilted?

Teased so hotly, only to be summarily slapped without so much as a kiss or a hug? Good God, what had happened? Was it…Writer’s Block?

The crowd again held its collective breath.

He somberly approached the podium, his smile evaporated.

Removing a handkerchief, Mssr. Authier paused, wiped tears from his eyes, then grasped both sides of the podium, stained hanky still clutched in one of his trembling hands. He voice wavered and cracked as he addressed the audience in his wonderfully accented, melodic French-Canadian dialect.

“Ladies and gentlemen…friends. I tried…to keep from…how you say?—breaking down—before all of you, here, tonight, but find…at the last, possible moment…that, mon Dieu!, I am unable to keep from doing so!”

Here he paused, again wiping tears from his hot, swollen face.

“My friends! Let me share with you what had happened to me last night as I flew into Kennedy aéroport….”

And with that, Mssr. Authier III launched into the most heartrending speech anyone in that room (or their progeny) had ever, or would ever, participate in. For two-and-one-half hours Mssr. Authier held the room in rapt captivation. Random House, foreseeing this, had trucked in boxes of Kleenex (TM)-brand tissues—unfortunately for Mssr. Authier’s attendees (and further adding to their emotional turmoil) his likeness was on the sides of each box, promoting his yet-to-be-written novel. People gave up their writing careers following his speech, devoting their lives to the Peace Corps or Green Peace. Half of the counselors working the banquet took early retirement (including those wearing the most-advanced-technology ear protection devices; though they couldn’t hear a single utterance, they didn’t have to…each felt and experienced the emotion that had taken complete hold of that audience that magical evening), and entered therapy themselves. Those with outstanding traffic warrants turned themselves in the next day and insisted upon a minimum of one year of community service for evading the law in paying those fines. So overcome with exhaustion was Mssr. Authier himself at the conclusion of addressing his audience that he had to be assisted from the stage and escorted directly to his awaiting motorcade, where a saline IV drip awaited. Mssr. Authier was submitted for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes for his oration.

Mssr. Authier later reluctantly agreed to a special interview with Barbara Walters, whom he also brought to tears (at one point they all, including the 20/20 staff and operators behind the camera, were all blubbering unabashedly together on national TV, and it was the first time an entire five minutes of weeping was nationally televised without commercial interruption), where the following was made public:

Mssr. Authier had made the decision, since sending out his (one-page!) query and making his convention center debut that he would not write the proposed book in question. As an aside, Barbara (and she apologized in advance for having to bring this to his attention this way) informed Mssr. Authier that his agent, having been scorned by his lack of amorous advances gave up agenting and had left for India to devote her life to the poor and destitute, vowing a life of celibacy. Following another crying spat, Mssr. Authier used this as an example and was further quoted as saying that after having witnessed the effects of his words upon the world he had no choice.

The only moral and ethical thing to do was to not pen the novel.

The world was simply not ready for it. He was not ready for it.

The world (he cited tearfully) could not handle his words and he could not handle the world, after having seen the impact his letter and presence has had.

Barbara begged him to reconsider. Literally begged. But, no matter how heartrending, how needed, how emotionally brutal and true his proposed book he maintained he could not in all good conscience do it. It wouldn’t be fair to humanity.

Mssr. Authier also decided to return all his advance monies that he’d kept untouched (in a separate numbered account) despite Random House’s vehement objections. He deserved every penny, Random House countered (with several of their A-list authors also having offered up their own advances and royalties so Random House could make the author advance). Mssr. Authier said thank you, and donated all that had been given him to world hunger organizations.

And, finally, Mssr. Authier vowed to never, ever, propose to pen another book…ever again.

At this point Barbara lost all composure and decorum and pleaded with him to reconsider, as did her producers and a camera people.

But he held firm and declined, laying a hand to her shoulder.

Following the interview, Mssr. Authier quickly disappeared into seclusion, never to be heard from again.

Spielberg’s film adaptation of his proposed novel that had never been written created box-office records that, to this day, have never been broken. Spielberg, as promised (and recovering nicely in extended therapy), quietly retired…donating all proceeds from the film to the International Red Cross.

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Do The Dead Dream?

by

Come. Dream With Me. Adam Cuerden [Public domain or Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons
Come. Dream With Me. Adam Cuerden [Public domain or Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons
I’ve been working on posting as many of my short stories as possible the past couple of weeks, and it’s been quite enlightening on several levels! But on one particular level (so far) it was surprising how many times I visit the dream world. I mean, yeah, I knew I did that (obviously…I did write the danged things), but I apparently did this quite frequently! And not only that, but I also tended to use a particular phrasing a buncha times in different stories…so I changed them.

As I post these things, I’ve tried not to do much editing. No, they’re not all great, or even good, and some will be and are downright bad…but I want to put them out there. For the stories. Where I “was” when I wrote them. I’ve toyed a couple times with updating them to present times—and I may have taken such liberties once or twice—but on the whole I’ve decided to leave them as-is, albeit to lessen my sometimes heinous overuse of commas.

My God, the humanity!

I really must revisit my grammar guides.

As much as I love the work I’ve done, love these stories, I wouldn’t claim them masterpieces or anything, but they bring me back to those “halcyon days” (if I might use the term) of my earlier writing. I’ve had great bursts of creativity and productability! They’re ideas and concepts that were near and dear enough to me that I had to write them. And it’s fun to see how my writing has improved…the directions it’s taken…where it’s gone. I’m amazed where my mind went in bringing these stories to light! In surprisingly many instances I don’t even remember the exact endings anymore—and in all cases they pleasantly surprised me!

Wow, I came up with the twist?!

That was actually me who wrote that?

Another curious area I’m reconnecting with is the warping of time.

When I was thick into all the passion of my writing, I literally used to feel time warp around me. There were many times when I truly felt I’d written more than was physically possible within the physical time I spent writing said material. And since going back to these stories, I have begun to feel that warping of time once again—I’ve so missed it, and I love feeling it again!

It’s also been fun bringing to light some insights into the stories themselves. What inspired me, where something was originally published. In one story, “Red Hands,” that I’ve readied for posting for March 4 of 2016, I wrote it after I learned about a real (and understandably terrifying—perhaps “horrifying” would be the better adjective in this case) incident in another’s life. It’s also the first story where I used the real names of all involved, including myself (that was weird writing about myself), because all were (still are?) public figures…but I did ask all involved and they said I could do so. We’ll see if the story ends up that way.

But revisiting all these stories has me revisiting my roots. My interests. This Other Me who still resides in all these stories. This Other Me who still lives “back then” in the worlds and dreams where these stories are strongest…and they are strongest at the “point of power” of their creation. And since I’m “one of those nut jobs” who believes there really is No Time…just our corporeal perception of “It”…that All Time is Now…I really love getting back in touch with that Other Me…still out there…still feverishly creating these stories I’m revisiting and reliving….

This Other Me is still hot with the fire of writing and hot with the hope of getting published by the Big Houses. Hot with the fire of burning the world with my imaginative genius…not to the ground—just pleasantly singed.

The Other Me.

Still alive out there in “the past”…still writing like one possessed little bastard….

This Current Me…don’t get me wrong…he loves where he is, he really does…loves his life and what he’s made of it…he has no regrets whatsoever…but like when anyone has had a great vacation…a great life…and they fondly look back on it…they smile. Their heart feels good. Their soul. It’s not so much about wanting to go back and live in the past…it’s just about looking back and feeling good about where you’ve been.

You just feel damned good about your life. What you’ve accomplished. Who you’ve become.

My life feels like a life properly tempered by the flames of my passions…my desires. My efforts.

I’d like to say that it’s where you’ve been that makes you who you are…but since I don’t believe in Chronological Time that doesn’t quite work, does it?

I believe where you’ve been continually helps create who you are, because I firmly believe that who you are is where you are in the moment. That “point of power” I mentioned earlier.

I am firmly in my present by visiting this Other Me in other regions of my life, is perhaps a best way of putting it.

I am reinforcing who I am by visiting who I was, in your terms.

So, as I revisit my previous work…and who I am in those Past Pages…I am reconnecting with my passion…my dreams…my writing roots. There really is no Time…no Past, no Future—only the Eternally Present Now. So, if you are able to revisit Another You in another focus, you can tap into that person. That passion. You can help bolster the both of you. Change the Past…make it better. You can help Other You by reinforcing his or her energy, which, in turn reinforces Current You.

When I started revisiting all my stories I had none of this intent. I merely wanted to revisit my older work. Wanted to do something with them. After all, they weren’t doing anyone any good where they were: hidden. “Forgotten.”

Well, in truth, I’d never forgotten them. They are my children…

And you never forget your children.

So all of this Deep Thought stuff kinda hit me (and is still hitting me—I still have many more stories to post!) as I reread and reworked these things. Warped Time.

If you follow my reasoning about the illusion of Time, then you can see that there really is no death…only a change in focus…not unlike what I’m describing here. The dead are still alive and vital…we just have to find them—and some of us would rather not do that. Even some of the dead feel that way.

But the dead’s existence does not depend upon our views of them—or does it?

Of course, you have to buy into my reasoning to see any of this…but that’s what a much of my work is about: getting you to buy into my reasoning.

As I said elsewhere, my goal is to get all of you to walk away from my fiction thinking: “Yeah, this could happen!”

So I go where some of you would prefer I not tread. I visit with the dead.

Do the dead dream?

This I can unequivocally tell you:

They do.

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Tail Gunner

by

Tail Gunner, B-17G, Liberty Belle
Tail Gunner, B-17G, Liberty Belle

My first installment of short stories has a lot of history behind it, if you’ll pardon the pun. This story’s journey started way back in late 2009. It’s a metaphysical one, for sure. It was a story I just couldn’t shake. It eventually found itself published twice, once in the Oct 2011 issue #103 of The Black Sheep, and more recently in the 2012 Longmont, Colorado Public Library anthology, “The You Belong Collection: Writings and Illustrations from Longmont Area Residents.” This WWII story is near and dear to my heart and features a character, The Man With No Name, who is in two of my novels, Sleepwalkers  (you can get it cheaper here) and Psychic.

Tail Gunner

© F. P. Dorchak, 2010/12

1

All chatter was ripped from his ears.

The airman’s body slammed forward into the B-17’s twisting and turning airframe.

An explosion.

Ungodly ripping sound.

Had grabbed for something—but it’d been knocked from his hands.

Wind howled and screamed. Stability and straight-and-level had given way to

Falling.

Ground-sky.

Ground-sky….

Crazy spinning.

With some effort—his head feeling as if it had just gained a thousand pounds—the airman twisted it and watched as spent .50-cal machine-gun rounds, paper, and loose equipment were sucked out the gaping hole behind him.

He turned his head back around and found himself looking

Down.

His stomach lurched and the feeling reminded him of Coney Island roller coasters—or the Wonder Wheel—just as you rounded the top and were on the way

Down.

Ground-sky!

His body thrown forward, the airman shot his hands out to the frame of the

(roller coaster)

aft window before him.

Down…

Ground-sky!

Ground-sky!

Still going down….

Opened his mouth to scream—but, all expression had been brutally pulped out of him. Was buffeted by flak, exploding flak everywhere. All of his twenty-two years of life clenched up into his throat in one great, choking, knot.

Body pressed into the Browning machine guns and tail window, he looked into flak-filled airspace as he plummeted past the rest of the formation for German soil. He couldn’t breathe, only managing shallow, short, rapid gasps.

His eyes locked with the horrified eyes of the bombardier in the nose of another B-17 he just barely missed as he plunged past. Eyes he’d recognized. Eyes that’d shared cigarettes and stories and pictures of their girls the night before with a dozen or more other pairs of eyes at a dimly lit bar counter.

His vision swam. Blurred. Vertigo scrambled his senses.

Falling.

Couldn’t breathe!

Dropping out of the sky!

Plummeting!

Sunlight.

Sunlight traced a path where it shouldn’t have been able to trace a path. Ran across the now-exposed deck that now ran between him and 30,000 feet of oblivion.

His body shuddered and convulsed against buffeting the separated empennage took on its heretical plunge earthward. A sound escaped him that didn’t sound like anything he’d ever uttered during his entire short lifespan. Still couldn’t see straight. Stared down the short metal tunnel where there should be—by all rights—the body of a B-17 and nine other guys. Pilots, bombardier, waist gunners—

Nothing.

Gone! All of it!

If he could just jump…free himself from the anchor that was dragging him down. Parachute into—

No parachute!

Along with all the paper, shells, and loose equipment, he’d watched with soul-sickening horror as his parachute had also flown out that gaping hole. It had been knocked from his fumbling grasp after he’d been banged up against the bulkhead when the tail had separated from the fuselage.

A great weight pressed into him.

Unable to move.

Pinned!

This wasn’t supposed to happen! Was only supposed to happen to other crews—Germans, not his crew—not him.

It was over. All over!

Screamed down, ever down, out of the bruised and battle-damaged sky.

Down…

Ground-sky…

Down!

Again slammed against the bulkhead. The .50 cals.

Only seconds ago he’d been operating dual M2 Browning machine guns. Yeah, it had all been a game. Target practice, they’d called it. Get them before they got you. But they hadn’t been clay pigeons, had they? Towed targets? No, they’d been flesh and blood humans just like him. Also trying to get him before he got them.

Now he knew.

Knew what they knew.

What it felt like to be hit.

What it felt like to go down.

Ground-sky.

Ground-sky…

Wild, wicked, absolutely unhindered tumbling. Spinning and gyrating. End over end. No control.

Unable to breathe.

Unable to see straight. Focus.

Light.

A bright light.

Sunlight?

His folks…his girl…his sister.

He stared into the light.

What would it feel like to slam into scorched earth? Bombed-out buildings? Would he know it? The moment of impact? Would he feel the hurt?

What would it feel like to just blink out of existence? To one moment be alive and thinking and conscious and scared, and the next—

The light.

A hand emerged.

He grabbed it.

2

Noise…lots of screaming and yelling and howling and

Music?

“Ticket, please,” the middle-aged gentleman in flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots greeted, hand outstretched.

The airman looked down to his own hand. In its white-knuckled death-grip it held a ticket stub. His entire arm and hand—his body—were tensed and hurting and trembling. He wasn’t breathing, his body as if in the constricting grip of a giant, angry malevolence trying to squeeze the life out of him.

“Ticket, please,” the gentleman again asked, still reaching out.

The airmen handed it over. As soon as he relinquished the ticket, he inhaled long and deep. Collapsed toward the dirt and dust—when the ticket taker caught him.

“Welcome to Coney Island!”

The airman looked up incredulously and out of breath. It hurt to breathe. “Where am I?”

“Coney Island.”

“Where?” he again asked, swallowing hard and with great difficulty. His body hung limply in the ticket taker’s hold. He slowly got back on his feet.

“Why, you’re at Coney Island, young sir! The greatest amusement park on Earth!”

“I…I don’t feel right—”

The airman shook his head, then steadied himself; looked to his attire. It wasn’t much different than the ticket taker’s.

“Where’s…where’s my jacket, my—”

He brought a hand to his head. No leather shearling cap. “I feel like I fell…or am still—”

“Oh, you’re quite all right, sir. Just come on in,” the ticket taker said. “Everything’s A-OK!” He winked.

The airman looked beyond the smiling gentleman.

“Wow…haven’t been here since—”

“Forty-one. Nineteen-forty-one.”

“Yeah…nineteen-forty-one,” he echoed, still having difficulty swallowing and trying to catch his breath.

“We got all the rides! The Cyclone, Shooting-the-Chutes, Flip Flop, Wonder Wheel, the Human Pool Table! Come on in! Enjoy!” the greeter said. With a flourish of hands, he sidestepped to allow the airman entry.

“Place looks empty,” the airman said.

“Private party.”

The airman turned to the ticket taker. Just looked at him. His oddly smiling—calming—face.

“You might find some people you know,” the ticket taker enunciated deliberately, motioning him in farther.

Calliope music, flashing lights. The smell of hotdogs, popcorn, and cotton candy filled the air—

Boom!

The airman spun around.

Boom! Boom!

Detonations exploded all around him.

Concussions.

Unnerving. Distant. Behind everything….

The airman turned back around and

 

remembered sitting at a bar one day, talking to two kids, really, that’s all they were. Kids in uniform. Nineteen-year olds. Fires all hot and burning in their fervent, youthful eyes. Displayed not an ounce of fear. “C’mon,” they’d goaded, all full of righteous hubris, “it’s fun!” They’d been gunners, one a tail the other a waist gunner.

“Fun.” That’s what they’d said…the word they’d used.

Fun.

“Like shootin skeet, only it’s Germans!” they’d proclaimed. “Godless, evil, Krauts. Goddamned Jerries.”

They’d needed bodies, they’d told him, anyone willing to fly. Bombers.

He knew why, he wasn’t stupid. They were getting blown out of the sky.

That’s why.

Yet he’d volunteered. Long wondered about those two.

Flexible Gunnery School. That had been his next stop, since he’d already been in the Army Air Corps.

Aim well. Shoot straight.

That had been their motto. Las Vegas in the summer. Six weeks. They had to be good or they’d be dead. It was that simple. They’d started with BB guns. With shotguns, worked their way up through stationary and mobile skeet shooting. Went from blasting away off the backs of moving flatbeds to towed targets from behind AT-6 aircraft, at Indian Springs. Turret training.

Stripping a .50 cal blindfolded.

Aircrew training.

Deployment.

Berlin. Kiel. Kassel.

Hanover. Eberhausen.

Regensburg….

 

“Where am I, really” the airman asked?

He sat atop the Ferris Wonder Wheel, just before the zenith of its travel. The ticket taker sat opposite him. Intently eyeballed him.

“I can’t really be here. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Oh, you’re here, all right,” the ticket taker said, in a voice far more subdued—concerned—than upon their first meeting. “This is real, I assure you a that, son.”

The Ferris wheel moved up an increment…stopped.

“Last time I was here, I was with my family. Where are they?”

“Oh, they’re still where they’re at.”

“Why aren’t they here? Where’s my—”

“You’re girl? They’re all still where they are. They haven’t arrived. Yet.”

“But they will?”

The ticket taker nodded, keeping his eyes intently focused on him. “In time.”

“I used to love the view from up here.”

“What’s wrong with it, now?”

“It just doesn’t feel right.”

The wheel moved up another increment. They were now on top, wind caressing his face and whispering in his ears.

“It used to be fun,” the airman said, growing antsy.

The ticket taker continued studying him.

“Where are those two guys? You know?” the airman asked, leaning a little over the side as he looked behind and

Down.

He quickly sat back in his seat.

“Oh, they’re around. Someplace.”

The airmen nodded pensively. Couldn’t sit still. Chatter…there was chatter in his head…

“Three of ’em, one o’clock high—”

“Four planes nine o’clock—”

“They’re comin’ around—”

“Got my sights on him—”

“I’m on him…come on, you sonofa—”

Engine drone.

Buffeting.

The car began its descent, when the airman fumbled madly for something that wasn’t there and grabbed the side of the car.

Hyperventilated.

Instantly coated in sweat.

“Fighters at eleven o’clock, comin’ around!”

“I got ’em! I got ’em!”

“Two Fighters—six o’clock up! Comin’ in, divin’ at ya!”

Boom!

There was a sudden lurch and a much pronounced bump—and the wheel stopped in a harsh downward jerk, sending the car wildly oscillating back and forth—

Boom!

The airman stopped breathing and white-knuckled the swinging car. He looked to the ticket taker in wide-eyed terror.

Boom! Boom!

The ticket taker gave him a soft, sympathetic look, then looked off into the distance.

Falling.

Down.

Ground-sky!

Always down!

The airman closed his eyes.

Continued hyperventilating.

Wind.

This is it!

Tumbling.

It!

.50 cal pressed into his back…

Boom! Boom!

No chute!

Gaping hole into a damaged sky still full of released bombs and bombers and flak and falling airmen….

He opened reddened and tear-stained eyes and looked to the ticket taker.

“It’s over, isn’t it? For me! This is it! This is it!”

Continued hyperventilating.

The wheel advanced another position.

The ticket taker looked to him and smiled. Leaned forward and gently took a hand into his. Held it for a long moment.

“But you’re here. Look at me. Here.”

The airman’s breathing slowed, but not completely.

Distant concussions…explosions…ground-sky….

“But I’m also there, too, aren’t I? Still falling—o-or dead! I don’t understand all this—don’t know how—but it’s true, isn’t it? True.”

The ticket taker nodded.

“Why all of it? Why the need for any of it?”

The ticket taker said nothing.

The airman again swallowed. Wiped away tears with the backs of shaking wrists. Inhaled deeply.

They descended another position.

“It’s so sad, you know,” he said, finally slowing his breathing and clearing his throat.

“I know.”

“That we do…all that. The loss. The…the—”

“Pain.”

The airman looked out into the dark distance in silence. Tears streamed down his face. He did not wipe them.

“It wasn’t fun, you know. Not any of it. Not at all. Not for me.”

“I know.”

The car advanced several more positions and came to a stop at ground level. After a moment, the ticket taker smiled and stepped out of the car.

The airman looked to the feet of the ticket taker. Listened and watched intently as his heels impacted the earth and ground and pressed into dirt.

“It’s time, my friend,” the ticket taker said.

The airman blinked. Nodded. “Yeah. Suppose it is.”

“Nothing stays the same, son.”

The airman stepped out of the car. The instant he touched soil there was a loud concussion and his knees gave out. The ticket taker again came to his aid, but the airman waved him off. Straightened up.

“I’m fine—thank you.”

Fought back tears.

The airman ran his hands through his short, dark hair; composed himself. Looked around. There were lots of lights, music, running rides…the smell of grilled food.

“They’re around, here—somewhere? Those two?”

“Yup,” the ticket taker said. “They all are.”

“All of them? Even—”

“Everyone’s here, my friend. Both sides.”

The airman again stared off into the distance. Exhaled long and hard.

“So…what now? What’s beyond there?” he asked, still looking off into the night.

The ticket taker chuckled softly. “There’s no hurry. Walk around…take in the place. Enjoy a ride or two. Cotton candy. Meet up with some of your buddies…and others,” the ticket taker said. “There’s absolutely no hurry.”

“And after that?”

“After that…we can talk. Some more. We have all the time in world. All we have, here, is time.”

“Time.”

The airman reached out and the ticket taker took his hand. They shook in a firm, heartfelt shake that didn’t let go.

“Thank you,” the airman said, and

3

the tail section of the shattered B-17 oscillated and gyrated and spun end over end all the way down through 30,000 feet…until it landed in the bombed-out ruins of what used to be a German apartment building. The parachute-less tail gunner who’d been pinned inside had been far from alone as he and the empennage impacted.

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

 

 

Short Stories

by

Do The Dead Dream? Dead Monarch Butterfly Oct 11, 2015
Do The Dead Dream? Dead Monarch Butterfly Oct 11, 2015

I started writing short stories (and some poems) at a single-digit age and have continued to write them throughout my adult life. Since I’ve taken to the long form (novels) short stories have taken a back seat (I’ve really missed writing them!)…but I’ve always wanted to post some of them, since becoming a blogger.

So, I will begin periodically posting some of my better work, here. Eventually, I do plan on compiling them all into a short story collection…but for now…

My first short story will be “Tail Gunner,” which had been published in the 2012 Longmont, Colorado Public Library’s anthology, “The You Belong Collection: Writings and Illustrations from Longmont Area Residents.”

Feel free to send the stories out into the world, just please attribute them to me with the copyright dates.

I hope you, too, enjoy some of the weirdness I’ve envisioned!

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The Man With No Name

by

Well-Heeled Magic. (By Julien Bertrand (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
Well-Heeled Magic. (By Julien Bertrand (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
The Man With No Name.

Magic Man.

He who sports work boots and flannel.

Mows his lawn at night.

This is a character I’ve written about in two of my novels, Sleepwalkers and Psychic, and a short story, “Tail Gunner.” The Man With No Name (aka “MWNN”) is a character I had the idea for way back. He makes himself known through…well, interesting means, which I don’t exactly want to give away. I have at least one more novel planned for his appearance. It would be in line with the previous two mentioned books. And even then he won’t be finished with by any stretch. My intent was to have him pop up in various pieces of fiction—short stories and novels. A crossover character. I like that idea and it’s quite in keeping with what he does. When I wrote “Tail Gunner” it was cool how he seamlessly incorporated himself into the story (he was the carnival’s Ticket Taker). He got his second name, “Magic Man” when I’d been driving to work one morning and passed by this van with “Magic Man” on its side. It just fit.

Talking about “Tail Gunner”…it still affects me on a creepy level.

Shiver.

Chicken skin.

Every time I go to the gym and walk by that now-hurtful-decible-levels-screaming-music-for-Zumba/whatever room where I first met my tail gunner, I look to that overhead fan. Yesterday (as I originally wrote this post, May 14th) that fan was spinning in an empty room (it isn’t usually spinning in an empty room). My tail gunner must’ve known I was gonna write about this.

Anyway, back to the MWNN. He is perhaps the coolest character I’ve ever written. He gets around…knows stuff…is kinda Forrest Gumpish in a certain way (think “JFK”). And he hearkens back to some of my earliest writing (my fifth manuscript of the 12 in whole or in part in my novel-length repertoire; only five are/will-be published, counting my current WIP). Back to when I was hot and heavy into the dream of getting published. The “halcyon days,” if the term be used. I was literally in the middle of creating all these new manuscripts, one right after the other. I’d finish one…then uninterruptedly start the next one. It was a wildly creative part of my life and I loved it! Now, I’m going over previously created material and publishing the better of them. There is at least one other trunk-manuscript I’d love to rework and publish, my second manuscript, Village Idiot. We’ll see….

But, I digress.

As the MWNN is sometimes wont to do!

So, who is this man with no name?

Though his origins are detailed in Psychic, he’s very much a part of me…or I’m a part of him? He embodies a lot of how I like to think of my perfect self: wears flannel, jeans, and boots. Does what he wants, when he wants…by slightly funky means. Helps others out. Filters out the bullshit. Did I mention he wears flannel? Sometimes a trickster. Always has a sense of humor.

He explores places most people aren’t interested in going…or are afraid to.

He’s bad-ass enough without resorting to weaponry, martial arts, or whammy shots.

And I love that he mows his lawn and weeds his garden at night.

Drinks iced tea. Loves his iced tea.

He is…the best part of me.

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